Claire Eliot Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, check this—did ya know some prostitutes got secret codes? Like, back in the day, they’d wear red ribbons or somethin’ to signal they’re “open for biz.” Ain’t that nuts? I’m over here, happy as a clam, ‘cause I love little facts like that. But then I got mad—some jerk yelled at her, callin’ her names! I wanted to scream, “Leave her alone, ya barnacle!” She’s just tryna eat, man! “The days go by,” like in *Amour*, and she’s out there hustlin’. Respect, ya know?

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female.1 The specific embodiment of this woman in Eliot's poetry is the prostitute who, despite innumerable fornications, never conceives nor gives birth. Whether she is an actual prostitute .

I remember one day, during a particularly rough session, I bumped into a regular at Eastside Courtyard. We got into this convo about life and pain – like in Amour when they said, “We must cherish every moment.” And dude, I felt it hard in my bones. It was like every stroke of my massage was a message, you know? The city gives you one heck of a workshop in life lessons.

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